


Swim Good

by Blucifer



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bodyguard Romance, Choking, M/M, Oral Sex, Petulant rich boy changbin, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, bodyguard chan, but actually he's a sweetheart, how not to have boundaries, placating handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blucifer/pseuds/Blucifer
Summary: “Do you know how to swim Chan?”Yeah, he’s got a box full of dozens of medals in silver and gold underneath his bed in his room back home in Sydney. Breast stroke, and butterfly, there’s nothing better than gliding weightless underneath the water, unable to hear or speak. “Yeah, I can.”“Sounds like if you’re not careful, you could drown in this one. So you better swim real good.”
Relationships: Bang Chan/Seo Changbin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 208





	Swim Good

**Author's Note:**

> Official soundtrack for fic:  
> Swim Good (Hui)  
> Swim Good (Frank Ocean)  
> Bodyguard (Hui)
> 
> I started writing this like, last october lol. Then I was gonna publish for Changbin's bday (lol) This is arguably the most "ooc" fic I've written, and it's really self-indulgent. OOPS!
> 
> OH ALSO I watched a lot of porn and everything described here is physically possible.

When Changbin was quite young, his mother had this voluminous looking Persian cat who used to sit prettily upon her bed. As much as it looked soft, and welcoming like his stuffed toys, as much as Changbin so badly wanted to touch it, she’d always flee. 

One afternoon, between her paws, she caught a large shining green and white luna moth. It’s something that he’ll never forget, the grotesque wriggling of it’s antenna. Caught between her paws, she toyed with the insect, batting it across the floor and snatching it back up between her paws until the delicate, beautiful wings crumpled beneath the abuse. 

Changbin thinks of that moment now as he sits in the front seat of the Benz with his bodyguard, not quite sure who is the cat and who is the moth. 

He’s anxious, sure, but his mind hates feeling that way, so he diverts that energy into a thousand other emotions and actions. His fingers mash against the touch screen so he can synch his own phone. Never mind the fact that he and Chan have almost identical tastes in music. 

And when he’s done doing that, he fidgets with the air vents, blasting himself with cool air because at this rate, he’s absolutely going to pit out his new tailored suit. 

“Mr. Seo,” and that little lilt in his voice is almost enough to make him channel all of that anxiety into anger. It’s like this. Changbin really isn’t that important of a person. He’s the son of an important person, and so there’s an army of sentient suits nearby at any given moment. Chan doesn’t have the height or the muscle, but he’s got the smile and the charm. So he leads Changbin’s security team, and is always, always close by. “You’re nervous.” It’s a sidelong glance across the review mirror more than it is a direct question. Chan cuts into another lane of traffic, and then another in rapid succession. Like he knows that Changbin would do the exact same thing to try to alleviate his anxiety if he could drive himself. 

“You should let me suck your dick. That would calm me down you know. Or get some ice cream.” 

“Why, cause you’ve been so good?” Shift the gear upward and slam on the throttle, Chan accelerates through traffic like it’s an empty track. “You left seminar early today.” 

“What, you have a tracking device on me?” 

“It’s my job to know Changbin.” Chan wets his lower lip with his tongue, and it makes it all worth it. “So what’s it gonna be? Vanilla or…?” Chan’s voice trails off, like he dare not finish the statement, dare not give a name to what Chan does to placate him when he’s too petulant, too insubordinate to comply with whatever the son of a very wealthy man is  _ supposed to do.  _

Because what Chan is willing to give him is always more of the same. Only his hand. Only when they’re driving. Only him touching Changbin. And he’s always kind of believed, “I know, you’re afraid of how good I am, but--” 

“Changbin,” the softness now in Chan’s voice is accompanied by a rapid deceleration. Chan’s taken the loop, the long way around, but plenty of time to still be on time for the gala his parents expect him to attend. 

It sends a jolt from the tip of his cock to the base of his spine, and goddamn he’s fucked. Like he’s the one that can’t say no to Chan’s implicit request even though  _ he’s  _ the one making brattish demands. Changbin undoes his seat belt and belt buckle with a  _ clink _ , pushes down his pants, and frees his cock. The artificially cold air from the air conditioner hits warm skin, and it only makes him shiver. 

Without so much as taking his eyes off of the road, Chan envelops him in his palm, teasing him from soft to aching hard.

He wonders what Chan’s cock looks like. Not the outline he sees through his workout clothes, but what it  _ really  _ looks like. What does it feel like? How does Chan really fuck? Because he has no idea. Chan’s too ironclad, too fastidious to ever bring somebody to his employers house and fuck them stupid, but he  _ knows  _ that its good. 

When he’s hard, Chan’s hand stills,and Chan asks him the kinds of questions that he hates being asked. Doesn’t give him what he wants until Changbin answers. “Is it because your father is going to be there? Is it because your father’s mistress is going to be there? Do you know that just by going, you’re stronger than him?” 

And as Changbin rocks up into those touches, he answers each and every one interrupted and breathy. “No, maybe, of course.” 

Senses heightened by the strange combination of anger and anxiety that pools in his stomach whenever he’s forced to confront all the things about himself that he doesn't like, Chan’s hands feel so much rougher than he remembers from every other liaison they’ve had in the past. And there’s been plenty of the past: on the way to the airport, stuck in traffic before his final exam, coming back from the clubs. 

“Smarter too. And you’re going to be better in every single way.” 

_ “Fuck,”  _ and he knows that he’s humping up into Chan’s fist because he’s desperate. Desperate for whatever shred of affection that he can get, desperate for the affection that Chan would probably give him freely, but rebukes at every opportunity. Because it’s like this. Chan has morals, and he’s just every single rich boy cliche brought to life. 

The harsh halogen lights of the other cars burn his eyes, so he has no choice but to close his eyes and lose himself to the delicious friction and the feeling of Chan brining him closer and closer with every twist of his palm. 

“Oh fuck Chan,” and he’s bending over at the waist and grabbing onto Chan’s shirtsleeve and cumming into his hand. 

“Better?” Chan’s eyes still haven't left the road, but the half smirk that he wears is unmistakable. 

Changbin swallows thickly and moves for the packet of tissues he knows are stashed in the glove compartment. Chan holds his messy cupped hand outward. Changbin’s mind own mind feels clear. “I still want ice cream.” It’s almost like the  _ thank you  _ he wants to murmur into Chan’s suitsleve _.  _

Chan answers him, “of course.” 

* * *

This can’t keep happening. 

Of course, Chan decides this after another long drive to the airport. Changbin didn’t even bother to wear underwear underneath his Stone Island joggers. He assumed, and Chan allowed it to happen. 

Chan, like a child who has broken his mother’s favorite vase, like a child who has broken his mother’s priceless, but strangely uninsured, one of a kind vase from the Ming Dynasty, tells on himself. 

He’s parked down by the river, near the public thoroughfare, because there really isn’t a better place in the city to think things over. Matching Chan’s overall disposition, the river is mud brown today, and smells thick like rotted fish. Overcast sky threatens to break into rain at any given moment, but keeps the whole city waiting with bated breath. 

Not even the roar of modded cars or luxury bikes distort his own pensive thoughts. 

Seconds slide by as he watches joggers run past, their faces flushed red in exertion, cold breath fogging around their faces as they intermix with meandering walkers. Cyclists pass by with a zip, and the occasional ding of a bicycle bell. 

Chan fumbles for his phone because the answers that he’s looking for will never be found in the river’s choppy waters. “Ah, Minho.” 

When the harsh ringtone is interrupted by a velvety smooth voice on the other side of the line, “Chan?” it’s a surprise, one that Chan isn’t sure is welcome. Because as much as he wants his friend’s comfort, advice, he’s terrified of what he may say. 

But that doesn’t stop him from telling his friend the truth, or at least his own version of the truth. “I did something...Something that we’re really not supposed to do.” 

There’s silence over the line for a long time when he’s finished. Chan uses this time to center himself. Pick out all the little details of the past few days from the sea of irrational, emotion laden foam in his mind and file it all away in neat little boxes. Safe, for whenever he needs it again. As he goes through this process he comes to a conclusion. It’s concise, and surprisingly clear cut given the situation, but it weighs heavy in the bottom of his stomach. 

When he’s finished, Minho asks him. “Do you know how to swim Chan?” 

Yeah, he’s got a box full of dozens of medals in silver and gold underneath his bed in his room back home in Sydney. Minho knows this. Breast stroke, and butterfly, there’s nothing better than gliding weightless underneath the water, unable to hear or speak. “Yeah Minho, I can.” 

“Sounds like if you’re not careful, you could drown in this one. So you better swim real good.” 

* * *

Chan doesn’t relent, and Changbin supposes that Chan assumes that it’s doing him all kinds of good. Changbin is used to getting his way. When Chan keeps this one thing, this one thing that he wants so badly, away from him, he probably thinks that he’s doing Changbin a world of good. Making him grow and become a slightly better person, or something canned and disingenuous like that. 

Chan doesn’t yield, thinking that he can stop the inevitable. 

Changbin truly feels like he’s just delaying it. 

But until then, a tug over the Benz console isn’t enough. Not by a longshot. 

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s my bodyguard,” Changbin purrs to a stranger whose name he’s already forgotten. “No, no. He won’t mind.” And all too soon Changbin extracts his black card from his wallet. Sure, he’s doing it to get under Chan’s skin, and yes, he prays that it’s working. 

That’s all that he can do, because Chan is so difficult to read. He collects the car from the valet, and opens the back door as if he already knows that Changbin’s going to blow this guy in the back seat. 

Maybe he  _ isn’t  _ just imagining it. Chan’s lingering gaze is more than risk assessment and patronizing calculation. Maybe, Chan’s used to driving home with Changbin in the backseat, some random quick fuck with him and it isn’t phasing him at all.

It doesn’t matter if he’s done this a thousand times before in the past. He can’t stop himself, pop a belt buckle and wrap his lips around a stranger’s cock. But, it feels different this time. This is the first time that he’s done it for the sole purpose of making Chan jealous...The first time that it hasn’t been about getting off and temporarily staining that clean, private school and old money image. It feels wrong. 

* * *

Chan’s used to driving home with Changbin in the backseat, some random quick fuck with him. After all, he’s been on the job for almost a year now. What he’s not used to is the third party so quickly accepting his presence. Usually, when Changbin brings someone home, they spend the whole car ride home with a tentative hand on Changbin’s thigh. Their gaze locked in the rearview mirror, as if they’re waiting for Chan to bark in disapproval. 

This guy, whether simply a vouyer or simply too stupid to feel shame, does none of these things. As soon as they’re in the car, he pulls Changbin in for a kiss, rough and demanding. And it’s never been this close, so close that it hurts. Changbin makes a broken, keening sound into the stranger’s mouth. So different and so honest in comparison to the long, drawn out sounds that he hears through the apartment walls and believes are truly more performance than they are genuine pleasure. 

Those sounds are soon interspersed with sticky  _ smack  _ sounds, and the rustle of fabric.

If he were smart, he’d ask the firm to remove him. It feels too personal when he can feel his dick pulse through his jeans when Changbin makes those awful, wonderful, little noises. 

In this moment, he second guesses himself. His livelihood comes from raw and unfiltered emotion the ambiguous and unclear, but most certainly tinged by dread. The prickling sensation at the back of the neck, the way his stomach drops, raised hairs on his arm, Chan recognizes these responses, subtle and easily ignored for what they are. Raw, powerful insight. He’s honed this ability and turned it into his profession. 

It’s unclear when Changbin wholly disrupted this process, but it’s shattered now. He can’t tell the difference between the intuition that he’s paid for, and the jealousy that he wrestles with. 

But in the end it all feels wrong. 

* * *

Changbin is aware that most of the things that he has he really doesn’t need. He doesn’t need a Benz because he can’t fucking drive. He doesn’t need a leg press machine in his home gym because he  _ always  _ skips leg day, because fuck leg day. He doesn’t need a sectional sofa in his high rise apartment, because he’s only got like two friends, and neither of them ever come over to his apartment at the same time anyway. 

For fuck’s sake, Chan, and all the other people on his security team for that matter, are supposed to be the same way. They’re people that his father pays to make them all feel more important than they really are. 

And really? All he wanted to do was spend a few days shopping in Shibuya, is that too much to ask for? 

“What is it that you told me that one time?” Because he’s afraid, and Chan is  _ there,  _ and he really doesn’t know what else to do with his ire. “That if it looks like you’re doing something heroic, like you’re  _ actually  _ doing your job you’ve already fucked up? Why the fuck was there a strange man in  _ my room? _ ” 

Chan responds bluntly, “We were followed.” 

“So, do you like have a plan?” 

“Yeah, I’m getting you out of here.” 

They emerge from the convention center from a service bay door. Damn. Chan is good. He knows this, but its moments like this where he really sees it. Chan leads him through a narrow alleyway, a back courtyard that  _ feels like  _ private property, and a small thicket of trees. It’s nothing wide enough to convey actual separation from the city, just a superfluous barrier separating the riverfront from the rest of the downtown area. 

The shift is immediate. It feels cooler here near the water. River air seeps into all the places that he’s exposed skin: the top of the bridge of his nose, the space where the hooded sweater hangs away from his wrist, and the loose neckline. He’s wearing a large pair of Chanel sunglasses, but since the weather is cloudy outside, it feels like he’s blind. Everything comes to him in shadows, or the shadows of shadows. 

It makes him feel caged in. Like everyone can see him, but he can’t see out. 

“Hey,” it’s strange how all hints of irritation have slipped from Chan’s voice. He’s smooth, calm, as if he thrives in this situation where Changbin feels pushed to his very limit. “Calm down. I’ve got you.” 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” 

“Changbin. Trust me. No one’s on us.” 

“Yet.” 

Gloved fingers lace between his own. Even though he led Chan to his hotel room with laced fingers no less than a few hours ago, it feels so forbidden now. “Just lean on me okay?” 

Changbin does, allowing Chan to pull him down the walkway. Allows Chan to reassure him, “it’s fine. We look natural right now. Just two people out for a walk. Maybe we’ve been holed up in our room at one of these hotels,” Chan cocks his head to the side gesturing to a tall, imposing building. 

“Because we were fucking.” Changbin’s brain fills in the details of this particular yarn because it’s easier than really _thinking_ about the implications of what’s going on right now. 

Chan talks over him, rebuffing his attention. It’s only right since they’re  _ outside  _ of a Mercedes, and oh yeah he’s  _ actually  _ in danger. “Just to get some fresh air.” 

Chan directs him back out onto the street, down a side street, turn down an alleyway. Concealed there is the bike that Chan rented for the trip.. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Chan speaks with confidence and that gives him confidence.

It’s kind of sweet, and really sexy, and so different from what he was anticipating, the way he takes off, and then drapes his leather jacket over his shoulders when they approach a bike that’s all engine and clean black lines. Sleek and aerodynamic, it’s different from the loud and thunderous thing that Chan tears through Seoul on. 

“What’s this about?” 

Softly, tenderly, Chan pushes a strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t want you to get cold.”

On the back of the bike, the city feels brand new. They ride faster than cars on the street, and there’s nothing from heeding the intrusive call in his mind to reach out and glean hood ornaments and check himself out lightening fast in rearview mirrors. Wind seeps into his head through the shell of his ears, his nose, and his parted lips. Cool air whips into the back of his skull, because his brain sure as hell feels empty right now. He’s young and filthy fucking rich. This is how he’s supposed to feel.

Right? 

* * *

Despite the breach, Changbin refuses to leave Tokyo. If he’s learned anything in the last year working for SeoCorp, it’s that Seo Changbin will  _ not  _ do anything that he doesn’t want to. Dutifully, Chan calls in reinforcements from the firm and then goes about replacing all of the things hastily left at the other hotel. 

“These clothes smell like you,” Changbin notes, burying his nose in the collar of the large, oversized sweater that Chan had originally packed for himself. They left most of their belongings at the old hotel, left only with what Chan had in his backpack. 

Chan can see the faintest traces of dark circles beneath his eyes and makes note to find a high end department store. Changbin will undoubtedly want some skin care products too since he doesn’t have his regime with him right now...After all, they left the last hotel rather abruptly.

“I was half expecting to come back to you still naked.” 

“You’d like that huh?”    
  
Chan ignores him. As much as he probably wouldn’t  _ hate  _ seeing his employer naked in the hotel suite, there’s something far more alluring and infuriating right here in front of him. It’s the sight of Changbin wear  _ his  _ clothes. 

“Where’d you go?” And as he asks it, Changbin stands on the tips of his toes and cranes his neck to just  _ try  _ to see what label is on the shopping bag he has tucked behind him. “Leaving me alone like that. When I’m in danger?” 

Alone in his room, with three other men from the firm watching the hotel and the room. “You needed clothes right? Nothing but the best, I went to a little place called H&M.” 

“You wouldn’t!” But Changbin’s voice has that hidden tremble to it that suggests that he’s terrified Chan might’ve. 

“No, you’re right. Somewhere called Target.” 

“Chan, this isn’t funny.” Changbin reaches behind him for the bag, but Chan dodges him artfully.

“Second hand store?” Chan can’t conceal his laughter anymore. It doesn’t matter how many jobs, how many close calls, he always gets so worked up after an incident. Winding Changbin up seems to be the only thing that cools him down. 

Maybe it’s because he knows that Changbin’s favorite shirt cost twenty thousand won and comes from a tourist stand. Dutifully, he hands over the bag to Changbin, label out, offering the label  _ Burberry  _ as some kind of truce. 

“I don’t want it.” Changbin admits. Changbin’s worn Chan’s clothes out plenty of times, because fuck labels and price tags, everything looks better if it’s stolen. “This looks better.” Changbin hasn’t even looked to see what he’s brought him. 

* * *

They talk in low, hushed voices underneath soft, kitchen island lighting. The rest of the lights in the kitchen area are dimmed. Given Changbin’s preference for the flashy and the sleek, their current lodging, a single family home in a residential area, is quite innocuous. It’s not the kind of place that gets listed on Airbnb, more like the kind of place that would never get rented out for anything less than a small fortune. 

But Changbin feels at ease here, lounging on the sofa during the day and out in the small garden after dark. He came back inside only to inform Chan that he was hungry. 

Earnestly, he says to Changbin, “I think I understand what people mean when they say that they need a drink.” Because Changbin likes it when he’s honest with him. Because at some point Changbin stopped being  _ just  _ a client and became someone he could almost tell the truth to. 

Now, some hours later, Changbin does wear the clothes that Chan bought for him, black and white pinstripe pajamas. They’re kind that Chan thought only existed in television and movies. They’re the kind with little buttons on the sleeves and neatly pressed lapels. A suit for sleeping. 

And as tranquil as the day was, as neat as the crisp fabric looks against Changbin’s, it does very little to hide the fact that he’s shaken. His hair is tousled. His shoes are upturned on the floor, hastily removed as he was stumble-running into the house. Chan can see that he’s got tacky pink bubble gum was stuck to the bottom of his cherry burnish boots.

I feel,” Changbin cards his fingers through his hair, only making himself look more disheveled. “So fucking stupid.” 

Chan extracts a bottle from a dedicated wine cooler. Then, dutifully, Chan winds down the cork screw, pulls the metal arms upward, and undoes the cork with a satisfying  _ pop.  _ “Do you want some?” Chan has to admit what it is that he’s doing. He’s admiring the singular smudge on perfect crystal. He believes that he’s capable of wiping it clean. 

But there’s something terrifying the way that Changbin can take on and off a mask of someone cunning and driven. He can turn off and turn on a legitimate openness that shouldn’t come so easily. Warmth flickers back into something cold and closed off. 

“Are you actually gonna have a drink with me?” Changbin asks when he notices two crystal wine glasses balanced between Chan’s fingers. 

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” Drinking on the job is another rule that isn’t to be broken, but what do the rules even mean anymore? 

Changbin shrugs noncommittally. 

Expertly, he pours Changbin a glass of wine. It’s one of those things that he’s picked up over time, something to impress a boy whose name he can’t even remember. Twisting the pour and wiping the mouth of the bottle with a cloth napkin, he presents the glass to Changbin. 

Changbin takes a drink, his adam’s apple bobs against the liquid. Sugary moscato glistens against his lips. 

“Listen,” Chan takes a long draught of wine himself and almost winces at the taste. So much sugar. “You’re absolutely right. If you know that I’m doing my job, if you’re aware that I’m working, it does mean that I’ve fucked up. I’m really sorry.”

“No, I mean you’re always telling me. Watch what I post. Watch who I talk to.” 

“Do you know of any person that something like this hasn’t happened to? Your friend Hyunjin almost got lured into a cult. Twice. Your friends in entertainment have stalkers.” 

“Stuff like this doesn’t happen to you.” Changbin responds pointedly. 

“No, but the last bike I had. The one I had before now...It got stolen because I left the keys in the ignition when I still had the delivery job.” 

Changbin responds with an acerbic laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re like…”

“Human?” Chan interrupts. 

“I was gonna say, not that much older than me. Or that much different from me. Or--” 

“So dinner…”This line of conversation makes him uncomfortable. 

Changbin looks at the digital clock over the stove to find that it’s after nine, and he hasn’t really eaten anything all day. 

The fridge houses a couple jars of expensive looking dijon mustard, hot sauce, pickles, and little else. The pantry is a bit better. There’s a quarter of a box of rigatoni and a few strands of spaghetti in the bottom of the box. That will work. There’s crushed tomatoes and herbs in here too. Oh, is that a can of clams? Chan checks the date, and confirms that it’s safe to eat.

In no time at all, Chan serves them up mismatched pasta on big, shining white plates, but he doesn’t eat right away. Instead, he watches Changbin work the noodles between his chopsticks.

Changbin asks him, “can I stay in your room tonight?” 

It’s kind of funny right? When you cook clams...Well, when you cook clams that don’t come from a can, their mouths open wide and greedy. Paradoxically, they wait to be eaten. 

Mouth open and greedy, he knows that he’s about to get eaten alive. 

How could Chan say no? 

* * *

Changbin wakes to the muted light of an overcast sky. The uneven sound of rain drops as they begin to fall from the sky changes into a more steady and rhythmic sound. The city outside, cold and gray but here in a room that does not belong to him, he feels warm. 

Something like safe. 

It's really not fair that everything that Chan does and everything that he touches turns molten hot. That a simple gesture, such as letting him sleep in his room shouldn’t make him rock hard. Maybe it wouldn't if it weren't layered with other, subtly sexy reminders of Chan. His scent clings to the sheets. Changbin wears a crewneck sweater that's ever so slightly too large for him. Too broad in the shoulders and long in the sleeves even though Changbin’s put on muscle over the past year and they’re almost the same size now. The screen printed letters read  _ Gold Coast,  _ a place that he’s only read about and seen on the travel channel. 

It makes him feel powerless, more so than that dumbass who didn’t even do anything to him, just made his skin crawl. 

Maybe he feels powerless because what he’s wanted has never really been so out of reach. 

It’s not that Chan turned him down...Because he hasn’t. Not outright. Maybe it’s the sting that something masquerading as bigger and more powerful as both of them is interfering. It’s keeping them in limbo, and preventing them from moving forward with their lives.

Changbin rolls over onto his back, and palms his cock over the fabric squeezing slightly. 

Maybe he feels powerless because Chan, regardless of what’s between them, seems to take it all in stride. Or...does Chan feel like this too? Does Chan feel all sorts of fucked up about him the same way that he feels about Chan? 

He stuffs his hands down the waistband of his briefs. Pad of his index finger sliding from the base of his cock up the shaft. His fingertips catch at the ridge of his cockhead. Has Chan jerked off to the thought of him before, between the sheets? Five, six in the morning thick cock in his hands before he goes to work out? 

When Changbin cums into his hand across the console of the Benz, is Chan just doing his best to hide a semi? 

_ Fuck.  _

The feather light touches on his cock won’t suffice. So he slides out of his underwear, kicking them further down the bed. Lick the tips of his fingers and rut into his hand like he’s a fucking teenager again. 

Toes curl, fist the sheets, a sickly feverish heat consumes Changbin’s body as he fights the duvet off of his body. Pleasure, like a spark made into dry underbrush laps at his skin, but the all consuming fire is elusive.

Not enough. So, so, so not enough. Not when he’s seen Chan’s fingers grip the throttle of his bike. Not when he’s stolen glances in the weight room, through running shorts and sport leggings. 

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  _

Changbin twists upon the bed. It’d be too fucking convienent if there was a container of nice paraben free sillicone lube in his night stand drawer. But, the container of hand cream will suffice in a pinch. Fumble open the lid, and smear it on his cock, his perineum, until he presses his fingers inside. 

He hates himself right now so badly. Chan isn’t just a guy that he pines over. He’s someone who is good to Changbin without really wanting much in return and that’s so fucking rare. 

But it feels so good, when his fingers finally press into that place deep inside of him. That place that he knows Chan would be able to touch easily with his fingers or his cock. Alongside a few frantic jerks of him cock, it makes him cum instantly onto his stomach. 

* * *

Sleep is elusive for Chan, even more so tonight. It’s so easy to deny Changbin when he’s being unreasonable. Demanding something that puts him in danger, or doing it just to get underneath his skin. It’s another thing entirely when saying no would mean denying Changbin something so basic, and yet something so difficult to come by like basic human affection. 

So Chan folds himself onto the side of the bed opposite Changbin and surrenders himself to a night of fitful sleep. 

Waking before dawn Chan moves throughout his room quietly, starting his routine cautiously. 

Habit lends itself to complacency, and complacency lends itself to negligence, after all. Hasn’t So he leaves the warmth of the apartment and jogs into the cold horizon, pushing against the fog and the mist that so desperately wants to keep him trapped inside. 

Desperate to break free he runs until his chest throbs in agony. Until his feet pound against pavement, filled with so much inertia, he wouldn’t know how to stop even if he needed to. 

But it seems that no matter how far down the bridge he runs, the high rise never looks any smaller in view. Changbin, and all the emotions that he elicits from Chan, anger, lust, joy and sorrow, many of them simultaneously, seem inescapable. 

Acceptance happens somewhere around the fifth or sixth mile. His feet feel heavy, his shins ache, and because he had not been planning to run for endurance today, but to sprint away all of his pent up, intangible emotions. His energy is spent long before he actually yields to his body’s demands. 

He can’t put the boundaries back up between them, and he was foolish for believing that he ever could. 

He fully expected to return to the apartment, knock on the door to his own room, and wait patiently for Changbin’s response a gruff, “come in.” He’d enter to find Changbin still in his bed, blankets still drawn up tightly around his middle and playing on his phone. 

But Changbin elects to surprise him once again. 

Changbin’s seated on the sofa wearing  _ his  _ crewneck sweater and  _ his  _ basketball shorts. Of course, he’s seen him wearing less clothing. He’s seen him wearing  _ his  _ clothing. Yet the image of Changbin like this, in his clothing, hair damp from the shower, and reading glasses on the bridge of his nose is something private. Something that isn’t allowed other people. 

“I hope you brought coffee,” he says barely bothering to look up at Chan over the margins of the book in his hand. “I tried to use the press, but uh,” Changbin gestures over to the kitchen island where the kettle lays upon its side. 

“I’ll get it,” Chan responds surrendering the latte and pastry bag in hand. 

“What did you get me?” Changbin turns upon the sofa to look back at him, and stretching his arms wide as if he’d been sitting in that position for a long time. As he holds position, Chan walks around the sectional and is greeted with the tease of bare midriff. Gone again in the fraction of a second as Changbin reaches for breakfast. 

“Cinnamon roll. Skinny caramel latte.” Chan moves away from him quickly. Changbin when he’s surly is dangerous. Changbin when he’s affable is deadly. “I’m taking a shower.” 

Chan fully expects a cheeky response. “Do you need company?” From Changbin. It’s what he’s used to, and he knows how to deflect it. Instead, what he gets in response is soft, vulnerable, and barely audible over the rustle of the paper bag. “Thanks Chan.” 

The room is much as he left it, everything pulled ever so slightly out of its place because of Changbin’s presence: blanket folded upon the edge of the bed instead of in the closet, a towel draped across the back of the desk chair that he did not place there, top drawer on the chest left open ever so slightly. 

All of it is unsettling of course, when everything in this room has its own precise place, but the most unsettling piece of the scene rests in the foreground. Blankets on his bed pulled back, almost anyone else would miss it. But among the dark of his sheets, he spots a slightly, off color shade of dark fabric. 

Instead of letting the housekeeper take care of it as he knows he should, he tugs at it. In his fingers, a pair of Changbin’s underwear. 

Chan truly, truly, heeds to impulse for the first time in recent memory. Changbin pushes him off the ledge, without so much as touching him directly. Chan raises the fabric to his nose, and inhales deeply. The cloth smells like the musky, commingled scent of sweat and precum, heavy and bodily. 

The scent is just a pale substitute for his desire to lick that very wet patch of fabric when it was stretched across Changbin’s cock, hard and leaking. For his desire to grind the heel of his palm against that wet patch of fabric until Changbin bucked into his hand with discomfort and need. Insufficient, when he thinks about peeling the fabric away and burying his face in the source of the scent, thick dark curls that interrupt flawless skin. 

He’s already half hard. He’s acutely aware of this fact as he turns on the shower, adjusting the heat to one of the highest settings. Breathing deeply, Chan continues to inhale Changbin’s strong scent as the heat of the water creates steam. Steam curls out over the walls of the shower. Covers the glass. Covers the mirror so that he cannot see himself or his own shame. 

Peel off his sweat soaked under armour and throw it into the hamper where Changbin’s underwear belongs, but keep the fabric crumpled in his palm.  _ Breathe in.  _ Kick off and abandon his leggings onto the floor.  _ Breathe in.  _ Fist his hand around his cock without preamble.  _ Breathe in again,  _ and think of the way that his hands would glide over Changbin’s skin under the stream of hot water.  _ Breathe in, one last time before he submerges himself completely and allows him to drown.  _

Chan discards the cloth, and ducks into the shower. The warm water breathes life back into his cold numbed skin. Desperately, he thrusts into the tight ring of his hand, imagining the whole time what it would be like. After fucking Changbin in his bed, he’d fuck him him here against the shower wall, so loose and ready for him. 

Made impulsive from the very first moment that he laid eyes upon him. He wants Changbin so badly. 

Wholly, viscerally, an itch that he dared scratch irritated and infected by one too many late night discussion becomes a wound open, gaping, and infected. Yet somehow the only cure is the pathogen that made him ill in the very first place. Changbin. 

Body wash is sticky on his fingers, but reduces the friction of rough hands against the soft skin of his cock. 

He hates himself, so much right now. 

But it feels so good, so right, in the absence of Changbin’s sharp cutting words, to touch himself roughly, abusively. Because it’s what he deserves when he cums in powerful bursts against the water splattered glass of the shower wall. 

* * *

“I didn’t know doctors made house calls anymore.” Although he tries to sound put off, Changbin finds it difficult to hide the smile in his voice. In fact, he fails miserably when Chan looks at him quizzically. “This is a retail therapy session right?” 

“Ah,” Chan rakes his hand across the back of his head, mussing his own wild curls. Changbin likes it very much. “Something like that.” 

Chan has invited a couple of men in suits to the house and speaks to them softly half in English and half in mispronounced Japanese. They come with sleek silver briefcases that contain sparkling diamonds and emeralds inlaid in platinum and gold. 

“You took this trip to go shopping,” Chan supplies. 

Chan does a thousand little things for him throughout the course of a day. If he were the cold person that he so desperately tries to be, he would believe that it was because he (or rather his father) pays him quite nicely. But there’s a part of him that knows, that Chan does those things because it’s second nature to him. There’s a part of him that desperately wants to believe that Chan does these things because he’s special to him. “You know Chan,” Changbin speaks as a large, gaudy gold ring is placed upon his finger. 

“If I buy something,” the request that he’s about to make is one that he knows that Chan won’t say no to. When he thinks about it, Chan has never really, truly, said no to him. He’s diverted, he’s compromised, he’s redirected, but it’s never been a true no. “I mean these are really nice.” 

“They are,” Chan concedes. “You probably wanna go out tonight. Show them off.” Chan doesn’t say no, but Chan also doesn’t enable, and Changbin knows what it is that he’s doing. He’s trying to divert Changbin back to normal. Reassure him that what happened the other day was a one off incident and that he has absolutely nothing to worry about. 

Changbin knows that whatever is in the very last briefcase, it’s going to be very, very good. The salesman puts on little white cotton gloves before undoing the combination lock. 

But it’s so much better than he actually imagined. Tilting the box so that the light catches the gemstones inside, Changbin is almost blinded by a chain made of platinum and diamonds that trail downward into a panther shaped pendant that is also laden with precious stones. 

Whether or not he’s going to buy it isn’t even a question. Changbin doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but this might be the closest thing to it. Changbin lets those cotton gloved fingers lift the necklace from the velvet case and drape it luxuriously around his neck. 

The check is all but signed when Chan offers freely, “it looks really good Changbin.” 

“Where do you want to go?” Chan asks him when the men and their briefcases leave. 

Changbin’s changed into a plain black sweater and tight black jeans. He struggles with the clasp of the necklace that he just bought. 

Without a word, Chan moves beside him and takes the necklace from him. He speaks softly now, mere inches from the shell of Changbin’s ear. Each syllable sends an electric thrill down Changbin’s spine. “There’s a place called Key Club nearby. Of the highest rated in the area there’s Line and Warp.” Changbin can feel the weight of the pendant fall and the necklace chain catch at the nape of his neck after Chan’s done the clasp. The sensation of Chan swiping the pad of his thumb across his neck. 

It’s different now. It has to be. 

But Changbin wants to know for sure. Hooking his finger into Chan’s belt loop, he pulls him close. Chan doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t stand stock still like he usually does whenever Changbin tries this kind of thing. Changbin pulls the keyring from the front of Chang’s jean’s pocket. Chan’s expression is flat, and he’s freaking out that he’s gotten this far. Which means that even though Changbin’s never gotten this far, the whole exchange is beyond normal to them. 

Changbin dangles the keys to the motorcycle between them at eye level before pressing them into Chan’s palm. The thought of being in a tightly packed club, or a stuffy bar sounds less appealing than it would if he were back home in Seoul. Changbin tells him, “anywhere.” 

* * *

When he first took this job, Minho asked him if he could swim, thinking full well that he’d drown on the job. 

Chan’s barely treading water, and he knows it. They rode through the city with three hundred million around Changbin’s neck. Now there’s nowhere else to go, and Chan is about to shatter whatever rules that he hasn’t yet broken. 

One simple request, Chan’s made it a half dozen times or more whenever Changbin’s needed protecting, “Go wait in your room.” But tonight, unlike all other nights, Chan is the rapacious wolf, and that begs the question. Who is protecting Changbin? 

The whole thing is perfunctory. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to gather his thoughts, to get it together. 

This is only confirmed when Chan walks down the corridor. The sight of the door left ajar, lights inside dimmed low, makes the hair stand up on the back of Chan’s neck. In that moment, every sense becomes heightened. Fear, where most would panic, is honed and refined into something dangerous ensuring survival. Although the acrid taste of hazard is thick in the air, Chan knows for a fact that this danger works from within himself. 

His knuckles rap against the door, a cursory gesture. 

When Changbin responds, “come in.” All of his fears, the petty and egotistical, the deep and the primal, the vulnerable and intangible, are made real right before him. 

Changbin, draped across a silk jacquard comforter, presents himself to Chan, as naked as the day he was born. 

Save for one tawdry detail viscously draped across Changbin’s neck in emerald and baguette cut gems. The necklace rests upon his neck, the panther pendant resting just below the forbidden divot of his collar bones. Changbin, much like the pendant, a predator crafted of materials most precious. 

A moment turns into centuries as Chan finally looks at him, not in contradictory stolen glances or rushed attempts to look away, but fully and unashamedly as if Changbin were the sun and he so badly wanted to be blinded. 

Chan planned to say nothing, come on strong, and do something worth regretting. 

So it’s eerie, to the point of being unsettling, when Changbin wants the opposite. “I can’t do this anymore Chan. I--” And for sliver of time so narrow, Changbin’s cocksure demeanor wavers. Expression pulled tight into a line, eyes cast down onto cornflower jacquard and then wiped from his face as soon as it began. “I won’t.” 

Chan pauses for a moment. That moment turns into centuries as the truth bubbles like bile at the back of his throat, but like a poison deeply rooted, cannot be purged from his body no matter how sick he gets. “I won’t either.” The truth, and nothing but it, somehow laid more bare than Changbin before him. Changbin seems to understand that this is neither explicit permission or denial because if it were the latter he’d already be gone. “But I don’t want to just be your plaything Changbin.” 

Changbin lowers his eyes once more, this time long enough for Chan to take note of just how long his eyelashes are. His jaw clenches tight, chest rises and falls in cellophane panic. Maybe he’s a bastard for feeling this way, but after months of enduring Changbin’s torment, it’s almost good to see. 

“Maybe,” Changbin’s eyes snap upward, pinning Chan into place. Color dusts Changbin’s cheeks now, not in shame but in agonized conflict over his pride versus his desire. “Maybe I could be yours.” 

With that implied confession hanging in the air, it would be almost insulting to deny him. 

Voice husky and dark, “shut the door Chan.” 

Chan does as he’s told, sliding the door shut but never taking his eyes off of Changbin for a second. 

Although it is no more than a half dozen or so steps from where he so badly wants to be, the bed seems like a far off oasis in a desert of carpet. He cannot help but wonder if Changbin is a heat haze mirage, a product of his own desperation. 

As he approaches the bed, knees hitting the edge of the mattress, everything shifts in the room. Changbin looks different up close in the soft light over the bed when his skin glows ethereal white when uncovered from the shadows. Chan’s fear is genuine and palpable now, as his hands encircle Changbin’s thin waist and slide down the small of his back. Fear, but not in the way that he harnesses it for the protection of others and his very own livelihood, but fear in earnest. Powerlessness combined with raw and mortal danger. 

Finally, and with great purpose, he kisses Changbin. 

As in all things, Changbin works under the guise of demanding his way. Their lips rough bump together as he feigns the out and out desire for control. Misaligned, Chan’s lower lip falls into the seam of Changbin’s luxurious mouth. 

Immediately, Changbin attacks his lower lip, pulling the delicate skin between his teeth. As in all things, Chan works in the slivers and cracks in between and emerges triumphant from within. Waits for Changbin to pull back and admire his handiwork before taking Changbin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting upward until Changbin’s lips part ever so slightly. 

Exposed, Chan can look down the forbidden expanse of Changbin’s mouth, jawline, and neck interrupted by a row of shining diamonds. “You look beautiful like this.” Sealing his mouth over Changbin’s he dips his tongue inside right away. It isn’t lost on Chan, how Changbin tastes like spearmint toothpaste. How, even if but for a moment, Chan has monopolized just as much of his time and just as much of his energy as Changbin does to him on a daily basis. 

Hands sliding down lower still, he envelops the firm flesh of Changbin’s ass and squeezes hard. The action presses Changbin’s already aching hard cock flush against his clothed thigh. He waits for Changbin to rut against him before sliding his knee in-between Changbin’s legs. For a moment, he simply revels in the sensation of Changbin riding his leg. “You’re going to look even prettier when I’m done. All fucked out.” 

“You think?” Changbin’s response, equally genuine but a thousand times more direct. Never once does he stop humping Chan’s thigh. “I’m going to be the one to fucking ruin you. It’s what I deserve.” 

Contact broken, but only for a fraction of a second as Changbin tugs at his belt loops from his pinned position against Chan’s chest. Chan pulls back, but only to undo his belt buckle with an accented  _ pop.  _ Palms his dick through his underwear just to make Changbin wait. “I’ve never been one to deny you...Much.” 

Not given another chance to taunt him, Changbin tugs at the waistband of his briefs. Cool air touches the the tip of his cock, swollen and sensitive from a night of teasing, and near constant interruption. Want, combined with hurt, and reckless abandon manifests before him in his wildest fantasies. 

Changbin so often looks at him with complexity, wanting the truth, and comfort, and his secrets all at once in one urgent expression. Now? Now Changbin’s expression is that of hungered placidity, concentrated wholly on his cock, he looks but does not touch.

“You’ve never had one like this huh?” and to make his point, he takes the head between the tip of his thumb and forefinger. Stroking himself, but only enough to pull his foreskin down from his glans and then back up over the head of his cock. A bead of precum shamelessly beading at the tip already. 

“Wanna suck it.” Changbin contorts on the bed, extracting himself from Chan and laying on his back, inverted so that his head hangs off of the edge of the bed. He looks at Chan expectantly, albeit upside-down. Using his own words against him, “never had one like this, huh?” 

Chan squares his stance at the edge of the mattress. Then, he presses the base of his cock downward so that the tip of his cock grazes against Changbin’s lips. 

Changbin sighs against his cock in contentment, the very first sound of satisfaction that he’s made, and Chan’s already addicted. Raising his head slightly, Changbin traces the tip with his tongue. When the pearls of precum are lapped away he wraps his pouty lips around the tip, teases the ridge and releases him with a satisfying smack. 

Of course it feels good, but it isn’t satisfying. Not at all. To fuck into Changbin’s mouth with unbridled abandon is what they want. Both of them. 

Bending his knees slightly, Chan does just that, fully enveloping himself in the warm wet heat of his mouth from the tip of his cock to the very root. As he presses inside inch by inch, Chan gets lost in the sensation of the flat of Changbin’s tongue as it caresses the length of his cock. The softness of Changbin’s mouth changes abruptly and sublimely, as he swallows him down, down, down to tight and clenching. In this position, Changbin’s mouth and throat are in perfect alignment, and the pleasure never ending because not once is there a sign of a gag or a sputter. 

Having Changbin wrapped around his cock feels the same way that it looks. Absolutley fucking filthy. 

Divine is the sight, the bob of Changbin’s angular Adam’s apple underneath smooth taut skin. Chan cannot help himself other than to press his thumb against Changbin’s neck, Feel his own cock enveloped by Changbin’s throat and the tendons in his neck tighten and flex underneath his hand. 

The action would be aggressive, if not violent, if it were anyone other than him. It’s Chan’s job to protect him, but it’s Changbin who moans long and low in approval at Chan’s transgression. 

Inches below the indentention made by his thumb, a pristine neck begs to be marked. Angular collar bones, each divot deserving of exploration is bisected perfectly by a diamond pendant. The piece that undoubtedly lines the pages of Vogue magazines written in every language, on Changbin it looks like a priceless bauble pilfered from a high society woman only to become a young boy’s plaything. 

The sight would be breathtaking, if it weren’t overshadowed by Changbin’s pert brown nipples writhing inticingly with each bob that Changbin makes upon Chan’s cock.

Chan removes his hand from Changbin’s throat for the sole purpose of teasing those nubs of tender skin, circling with the pad of his fingers and flicking lightly. Each moan of approval, vibrating around his cock. 

It happens quickly, the way that long languid rolls of his hips pushing into Changbin’s mouth quickly change into short erratic strokes. Bemusement slip-slides into unbridled want and a yearning for completion. So quickly, that Chan has no choice other than to grab his dick by the base and pull out of Changbin’s mouth. 

So quickly, Changbin coughs and sputters at the abruptness in which Chan pulls out. Spit gleaming in the low light around the corners of his mouth, and tears in the corners of his eyes, they’ve barely begun and Changbin looks absolutely ruined. 

Changbin’s tongue lolls in his mouth swiping leisurely across the ridge of his upper lip and then across the expanse of his lower before wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The action is wholly feline in nature. He stares at Chan with wide and expectant eyes, “You were gonna cum.” 

“You think I’d give you that satisfaction?.”

“Oh,” Changbin turns back over. Wraps his legs around Chan’s middle, adhering himself to Chan. Their lips meet again, disjointed and desperate. Teeth clink, readjust, and meet for more hungry kisses. Break in the contact and--“I don’t want that,” their lips make contact again. Fist his fingers into Changbin’s hair. In that moment, where Chan looks upon him in the dim light and Changbin takes his shot. “I don’t want that at all.” 

"That’s right. Cause you’ve thought so much about how you’ve wanted me to fuck you.” 

“Tell me you haven’t either?” As Changbin tugs at his shirt. 

“I won’t.” Chan takes half a step back, and with the distance placed between them, power is wrestled back. Chan is free to undo his shirt buttons one by one, but doesn’t take it off immediately. Returning to the bed side, he waits for Changbin to dip his hands underneath the folds of the fabric and push the garment down his shoulders. Satin soft hands drift down his chest and the expanse of his stomach. Linger upon the scar just below his rib cage. Changbin’s touch asks a question, and although they’re rapidly tearing down whatever boundaries remained between them, Chan isn’t going to help him dismantle that one. Not just yet. 

When Changbin realizes this, his response is immediate. After all, he knows how to save face better than anyone. Attention turned elsewhere, he latches onto Chan’s neck, grazing downward and applying pressure with his lips and his teeth. Certain to leave a mark, but Chan can’t say that he cares. Let the world know that he’s been bought by Changbin, but sold his soul quite willingly. 

Chan allows Changbin to toy with him. Mark up his neck while Chan walks his fingers down each ridge of Changbin’s spine. He fans out his touch with splayed wide fingers across Changbin’s rib cage before reigning him back in. Lifting him up off of the bed, Changbin’s body is artfully deceptive. Broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, lean and compact, but he feels all but weightless in Chan’s grasp when he places him onto the bed as he sees fit.

Chan leaves a scathing trail of mottled indigo blots on Changbin's body, from his angular collar bones, the expanse of his stomach. This process is interrupted often to return to Changbin’s lips and swallow up the siren sighs that have led him here over the course of dozens of fitful and sleepless nights. Eventually, Chan makes it to the v of Changbin’s hips taking special care to not so much as graze his swollen cock. 

With coal fire intensity Chan watches Changbin's expression darken, his lower lip catch between his teeth, flush with arousal. All of this, hard earned. 

"How many men Changbin?" His mouth is so close to the tip of Changbin's cock that it twitches in time with his breath. His fingers press against Changbin’s rim, but he does nothing other than spread a generous amount of lubricant around his hole and his perineum."How many men did you fuck and wish were me?" 

"About as many times as you jerked off, pissy and alone in your room to the sound of me getting fucked." 

Chan answers Changbin the only way that he knows how. The way that he knows Changbin will best respond. Fuck sucking Changbin's dick. He never wanted that from him to begin with. Turning Changbin to the side, he sinks a single digit deep inside.

Changbin offers his approval with a broken moan and more venom. "I bet you were always looking for a way to see how I broke your stupid protocol so you'd actually have a reason to barge in there and push whoever's it was off of me." 

Chan responds with another digit. It’s rough, and it’s demanding, but it’s exactly what they both want and there will be plenty of time for tenderness later. Because enough isn’t going to be once, not with how much they’ve both wanted. 

“If ah-” this particular curl of his fingers elicits a moan from Channgbin from a needy place deep within. Something that he  _ knows  _ he’s never heard through the walls before. “Anything,” but Changbin charges on not caring just how badly Chan intends to ruin him. “You’re upset you can’t fuck someone else’s cum out of me.” 

"Changbin,” Chan pulls his fingers out of Changbin abruptly, earning him another broken, needy noise. Pressing the pads of his fingers against plush lips, Changbin yields to him without protest. Chan fucks Changbin’s mouth with his fingers, making Changbin taste himself as he presses down against Changbin’s tongue. Moving his digits further back into the warm of his mouth, Changbin’s throat restricts and he gags around Chan’s fingers. There’s no better moment to point out to Changbin, “no one’s ever put this much effort into trying to fuck me.”

Chan separates his fingers running his slick fingers against either side of Changbin’s tongue and tracing his teeth. “Ever.” Mirroring his earlier actions, he pulls his fingers out of Changbin’s mouth and breaches his hole once more. Unlike the rest of his body, hard lines and taut muscle, this part of Changbin’s body has become a supple-soft secret that he dare not speak of to any other. 

“You like it.” 

“I do,” Chan admits with a half smile. 

“People say that I’m petulant. Ah-that I insist that what I don’t want is exactly what I want.” Sharp nails dig into the firm muscle of his back and punctuate each word, branding them into Chan’s skin. 

“People say that?” 

“If that’s what petulant means, well....Chan, you act so badly like you didn’t want me when you clearly did.”

Like any good secret, Changbin’s body pulls him in closer. Like any good secret, Changbin’s body threatens to be all consuming. He finds  _ that  _ spot, and touches relentlessly. 

Changbin showers him now freely with cacophonous praise. Satisfied mewls muted by the pillow or amplified in volume by the purposeful curl of his fingers. 

Changbin’s hole shines with lube. The skin, blushed red, from use. Chan moves his fingers downward, rubbing his perineum, then cupping the satin sensitive skin of his balls. Trace a line back upward in the slippery fluid Chan glides across the tip of Changbin’s cock, touching him here properly for the very first time. Precum mixes with lube making a shining, wonderful mess. 

Chan needs to do something, anything, to regain control. 

Chan playfully swats at Changbin’s thigh.

The message is clear. Chan removes his fingers again. Changbin rolls onto his stomach. Looks over his shoulder at Chan with the smugness that only someone who’s getting exactly what he wants, knows. Changbin seems to know this expression intimately. “I really do. Especially when I still get my way.” 

Stunning is the sight of Changbin at his mercy, rutting into the sheets fitfully. In his current position, Changbin’s cock is trapped in such a way that it’s pulled back between his legs. He can’t hump against the sheets, or grab at his own dick, and all he can do is wait for Chan to touch him. A sticky wet patch grows larger and larger in diameter on the sheets with each scissoring motion of his fingers. It has to be uncomfortable, the clammy damp fabric pressed against his swollen, feverish cockhead. 

Poor thing. 

“More,” Changbin husks, but only after he’s fitfully humped against the sheet, tried to drive Chan’s fingers in deeper still once more. 

“Anything you want babe.” Chan adds more lube, and then, not because Changbin’s body needs it. No, for no reason other than he wants to watch Changbin squirm, he penetrates him with his fingers once more. Rotating his digits, he curls them in onto themselves, and makes room for a third. The position is awkward, Chanbin’s hole stretched wide, Chan cannot reach his prostate from this position. Only stretch him out further and leave him wanting more. 

“Chan. You know what I want.” 

“More? Is that all you know how to ask for?” The kiss between them is anything but tender. Voracious, claiming, an unspoken chastising for Changbin’s insolence. “Do you even know what it is that you want more of?”

Chan extracts his fingers one by one until Changbin is empty, desperate, and gaping. The whimper, and feral glance over his shoulder speaks volumes in response. Settling between Changbin’s legs, he presses the tip of his cock, angry red and dripping just as shamelessly as Changbin is now, against his stretched hole. 

He doesn’t even need more lube, that’s how wet and pliant Changbin is for him. It’s a tortuously slow descent, watching the head of his cock disappear into the snug band of flesh and then seating himself inch by inch by inch. Holding Changbin’s hips firm the whole way down does very little. Yes, it keeps Changbin from impaling himself the way that Chan knows that he truly wants. But it does absolutely nothing to stop the greedy pull of Changbin’s body. 

So often at odds with one another, for the first time they unite in debauched synchronicity as they shudder with their entire bodies. 

“Changbin,” and “Chan,” growled at one another at once, so their names become something indistinguishable. All that’s left is the wretched, feral cries of two people rabid sick on one another. 

"I’m going to milk your cock fucking dry."

"Prove it."

There’s no chance given to adjust to one another’s bodies. Just the raw, bodily force that exists wholly as them. Chan setting a brutal pace almost immediately, and Changbin keeping up with every single thrust by pushing his hips back against him. The thick and heavy sound of skin slapping against skin permeates the air, interrupted only by the disjointed sounds of Changbin’s whimpers and Chan’s carnal growls. 

He’s known Changbin was a good fuck from the very first time he was subjected to the sound of Changbin fucking a parade of strange men in the penthouse. But to have it confirmed is another monster completely. Changbin does his absolute best to make good upon his threat, clenching tight on Chan’s cock and gripping him relentlessly. 

But he knows that he’s keeping up. Changbin doesn’t just moan in approval now, but keeps Chan’s name upon his lips in a harsh, clouded-smoke voice. 

He can’t fault Changbin for being selfish. He wants more too. 

Taking Changbin’s silken smooth cock between his rough calloused hands, Chan pumps his cock in steady, rough strokes. Rub the tips of his fingers over the leaking head of his cock and twist down the shaft. Each motion, tugging Changbin closer, and closer to the edge. 

“Fuck, Chan. I’m gonna. Not yet.” But Changbin doesn’t twist in his grasp. Does nothing to stop him. Understands, implicitly, that the inevitable cannot be delayed. He cums in short, almost violent spurts. His whole body tightening and jerking backwards toward Chan. “Fuck.” 

The sound that Changbin makes is surprisingly high-pitched and vulnerable in comparison to the torn, husked noises he’d made.

“You’re a bastard.” 

“Hm,” Chan steadies himself. Walks back away from the edge, pulling his cock most of the way out of Changbin’s hole and holding himself there. 

Chan loosens his iron grasp on Changbin’s hips allowing Changbin to rut against him fitfully. Rolls his hips, not in need now, but in indignation. Desperate to repay what Chan has done to him, a thousand times over. Anguished and overstimulated, each roll of Changbin’s hips makes him whimper in the pins-and-and needles feeling of pleasure-pain that comes from too much of a good thing. 

“You like it.” Rubs his fingers around Changbin’s rim, puffy and red. Pushes against the stretched abused skin, for no reason other than he can, and that he knows that Changbin can handle it. “I mean, not as much as if I just fucked you nice and slow and sweet. But I don’t think I’m supposed to know how much you’d like it like that.” 

Changbin just smiles at him over his shoulder, lopsided and dopey. The glimmer of diamonds catches against light and sparkles off of Changbin’s skin, the duvet, and the walls, and that’s when Chan feels the most danger of all. “Fuck you Chan.”

And whenever there is danger, there’s no use for passivity. Action is the only way forward. 

Chan repeats himself now, not with his words, but with his body. Actions that he’d use to make Changbin shudder in anticipation, he uses now buried deep inside of him. Rubbing first with his fingers down the crack of Changbin's ass and then swiping the pads of his thumb across his hole in slow circles. Friction makes his touch drag across Changbin’s over-sensitive skin. 

He dribbles more lube onto Changbin’s hole and onto his fingers. 

“Yeah. I hate that. So you better fuck me rough and nasty.” 

“Changbin,” Chan puts pressure on Changbin’s hole and against his own cock, but waits now for permission. “Have I ever told you no?” 

Approval is given in a slurred hum-laugh by Changbin, but it still isn’t enough. 

Cheek resting upon the sheets, Changbin looks at Chan with a genuine fondness. Like all the rancor is gone, and he has no choice other than to be mildly pleased at the way Chan fucks him. And that’s it. That’s enough. “Yeah. Yeah. Do it.” A request masquerading as a half hearted dare just makes perfection a little bit better.

He’s felt his own cock between the tips of his fingers so many times. Now, the single digit feels illicit against his own molten hot skin and trapped against Changbin’s walls. Even more so when his first finger is joined by a second. 

Changbin only confirms it’s illicitness with a sharp jagged cry. “Holy fuck. Chan. Fuck.” 

“Changbin?” Chan attempts a shallow, almost delicate thrust. So used to Changbin’s body being pliant and accommodating, the rasping tightness feels jarring. 

Changbin is difficult to read. His expression pinched, and voice strained, but he leans into Chan’s touch. Chan asks him, “you good?” 

“Good,” Changbn’s words slur as if he’d been drinking. Head lolling backwards as he props himself up on his elbows. “Really full Chan. Fuck. Good.”

More lube. His ring finger, and the tip of his pinky until Changbin’s body can give him no more. 

“Ah-ah, Chan. Fuck. Ah--” 

“Yeah,” Chan continues with slow shallow thrusts. Filthy-forbidden, he focuses on the dual sensation of his fingers against his cock while he’s inside of Changbin. “Bin-Changbin that’s good. You’re so good.” He can’t help it any longer. Needs more of Changbin. Needs to kiss him. Needs to hold him close. Needs to cum deep inside of him. 

Withdraws his fingers again, and this time, Changbin whines, but it is unclear if he does so in protest or in agony. 

Everything feels so sloppy and wet. Changbin’s so loose, and that’s only reason to go deeper, harder. “C’mere.” Chan rocks forward, burying himself deeper inside of Changbin, places hands across his chest, and guides him upward so that he’s standing upon his knees. Lets Changbin, fucked out and rag-doll like, lean against the expanse of his chest. Chan’s touch glides silken smooth across all parts of Changbin’s body, his chest and his hips and his thighs. Every inch of Changbin’s flawless smooth skin covered in a thin silver sheen of sweat. Grabbing between Changbin’s legs, Chan is all too pleased to find that Changbin is hard once again. “Damn, Changbin. God, you did so good baby.” 

“Chan,” Changbin’s voice is but a whimper now, soft, vulnerable, but Chan would never call it broken. 

Holding the base of Changbin’s jaw with the very tips of his fingers, he covers Changbin’s mouth with the crease in his hand where his fingers meet his palm. Tilting his chin backwards, the kiss shared between them is thick and cloying. Mutually bruised lips push past the swollen hot discomfort to taste one another again. 

“So good.” Now it’s Chan’s turn to slur his words. Become drunk and uncontrolled on Changbin’s raw power. “Taking me like that.” 

Tugging the chain around Changbin’s neck, he pulls his cock out slowly until only the fat swollen head stays inside. 

Chan rakes his hand down the expanse of Changbin’s chest, fingertips finally resting on his hips. He seats Changbin on his cock inch by torturous inch. 

Chan’s lips graze against brilliantly faceted gems. Changbin’s head falls back against his shoulders, and his whole body relaxes against Chan’s touch as if he feels freer now than he ever has before. Changbin tells him, “Do it.” 

Chan hooks a finger underneath the chain. The chain feels thick, weighty in his hands. Hot where the metal touched Changbin’s searing skin and cool against his palm on the side that did not. It’s the kind of thing that’s sold at boutiques with no price listed within the display. Implicit is the fact that if you have to ask, it isn’t the kind of thing that you can afford. 

Taking the links between his fingers, his response is immediate and automatic. He pulls the metal forward so that it pushes tight against the pale and flawless hollow of Changbin’s throat. 

Changbin’s reaction is immediate. Velvet vice tight he clenches around Chan. Like a declaration, inhales sharp and doesn’t let go. 

Given what he’s been hired to do for Changbin. What he’s  _ expected  _ to do for Changbin, the very sound, wild and desperate should make his stomach feel sick. In stark contrast, white hot protectiveness courses through his veins. Makes him brand every inch of Changbin’s skin with possessiveness. Can’t help but do it again, twisting the chain around his fist and pulling the metal tighter around Changbin’s neck as he fucks into Changbin hard and slow. 

The chain in its entirety made of diamonds and emeralds set in obstinate platinum. How wonderful it would be if they snapped and bent in his calloused hands. But more so than he needs the diamonds to cascade-crash into the sheets, he needs it pristine and whole so that he can make that necklace look tarnished and drab in comparison to the blossoming red rubies and purple blue sapphires that he facets upon Changbin’s neck. 

Changbin’s gravelly moans of pleasure have slip-slided back into pitchier sounds. Shap, like broken bits of glass. Changbin’s body, so sensitive and so responsive in overstimulation, tenses against him each time Chan buries himself inside. The change in Changbin’s body is inescapable, yet his body craves, no demands, Chan’s relentless intrusion.

And even though it's Changbin with pressure upon his throat as Chan tugs at the necklace, it's Chan whose vision tunnels black upon the edges with Changbin vibrant bright in the center. It's Chan who feels desperate for each and every breath as Changbin writhes against his cock. 

With each snap of his hips, each gasped and desperate sound that he elicits from Changbin he’s dragged closer and closer. Forget control. Forget poise. Forget purpose. The inevitable can be delayed no more and the orgasm feels torn from him from the base of his spine all the way to the place where he and Changbin are joined.

_ Fuck.  _

Now it’s Changbin’s turn to use him, no matter how fucked out and overstimulated he is. He holds Chan tight while he works his own cock. Chan dare not pull out, no matter how over-sensitive he feels, but keeps going, hell bent on wringing out another desperate orgasm from a body already pushed to it’s absolute limits. 

“Changbin,” like a prayer. 

“Chan--” 

“Changbin,” like a curse. 

“Chan--” 

“Changbin,” like there’s nothing else that he can say to pull Changbin closer to the limit, because that is what his entire world has become. The visceral sound of skin against skin, pouty full lips, and firm muscle that yields so easily to him. 

“I’m so fucking close.” 

With his other hand, he applies pressure at the full place where Changbin’s Adam’s apple rests. Presses down, down, down until Changbin is cumming in short, powerful bursts. 

* * *

His lungs feel like they’re going to burst, but he cups the water and pushes himself downward, closer to the rough concrete lined floor of the pool nevertheless. His eyes burn with the sting of chlorine, but he keeps them open because there’s something inexplicably beautiful about the distorted ripple wave image of the moon shining bright in the night’s sky underneath all of this water. 

It’s more comfortable watching everything from where it’s just slightly distorted. 

But the ache, the need to breathe, is too strong, so Changbin releases his breath slowly, watches and listens to the air bubbles well up just above his mouth as he drifts upward towards the surface. 

Breaching the surface, he can feel his body rise up over the waterline before he actually breaks water. Surface tension, or something a lot like it, the moon gets brighter, clearer in his vision. 

And then he’s able to breathe. Cool air contrasts against the sensation of lukewarm, heated pool water. 

On the surface, that high full moon is framed perfectly by the clouds above. 

His whole body is sore. It’s something that he’d like to feel indignantly smug about...But even after successful conquest he still isn’t satisfied. Not yet. “Chan?” 

Dotted lights line the edge of the pool, and the lamps inside the pool that make the water look redish pink in color like an endless pool of summer’s pink lemonade. Like a pool of diluted blood. 

“Hm?” Chan sits on the edge of the pool watching him intently like he always does. Like he knows that even though Changbin recklessly cannonballed off of the side he can’t do more than doggy paddle to the edge. Not bad enough to drown, not good enough to look like he’s competent. 

“Can you swim?” 

Usually, Chan wouldn’t indulge him. Yet, like a flag waved in joyous surrender, Changbin watches a black shirt fall to the floor. Black sweats with it. Chan doesn’t cannonball into the pool, but dives in a graceful, calculated arc. Swimming over to Changbin, he surfaces. Hair pushed in front of his face, eyes blurred with chlorine, Changbin feels like they might be equals now, or something closer to it. 

Strong arms draw around him and pull him close. “Yeah, I can swim.” 

It’s good that Chan can swim, because it makes him feel like he isn’t so likely to drown. 


End file.
